


come to us, dear poet (with April, with the dawn, with the spring)

by yourlettersinthesand



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Grantaire-centric, M/M, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Pining Enjolras, Tenderness, and yes combeferre has a PhD in Philosophy and you can't stop me, its about the mortifying ordeal of being known!, pretentious writing because i am dramatic, theyre having a sleepover yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23785498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlettersinthesand/pseuds/yourlettersinthesand
Summary: In the cramped living room, wide, floor-to-ceiling windows bathed them in crimson light woven with the young gold of the newborn morning. Grantaire blinked awake; he saw curtains flowing in a way that, had Jehan not been resting, ought to be captured in verse. As it was, he could not admit to literary ambitions, and humbled himself to an admirer's tilt of the head; the largest bookshelf, too, was in his line of sight, and the fluctuating light blurred the lines between the wall's milky white and the wood's withered grey.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	come to us, dear poet (with April, with the dawn, with the spring)

**Author's Note:**

> My hands are sweating. Welp.  
> I've loved Les Misérables with my whole being for five years, and yet I had never dared to write something about my dearest characters. Hopefully, I didn't miss the mark too terribly. English is, as you can tell, not my first language, so please do point out any mistakes. Constructive criticism is welcome, as this is my second written fanfiction ever. Thank you, Rita, for putting up with my bs.  
> You can find me on tumblr @greygrantaire.  
> The title is from a letter to Alphonse Esquiros written c. March 1853 by Victor Hugo.

You would expect silence to lay heavy and steadily in a home where everyone slept; alas, even unconscious, Les Amis announced their presence, in a melody whose substance could not be caught, in which its pauses often spoke louder than its clamor. From the far bedroom doors, snores and the occasional shuffle could be heard, as some of them had taken to the bedrooms in piles. In the cramped living room, wide, floor-to-ceiling windows bathed them in crimson light woven with the young gold of the newborn morning. Grantaire blinked awake; he saw curtains flowing in a way that, had Jehan not been resting, ought to be captured in verse. As it was, he could not admit to literary ambitions, and humbled himself to an admirer's tilt of the head; the largest bookshelf, too, was in his line of sight, and the fluctuating light blurred the lines between the wall's milky white and the wood's withered grey.  
  
Paris took its first deep breath of the day along with Grantaire. Between the world and himself there used to be a familiar tune of mutual ruin, eventual, inexorable self-destruction - now, as he gazed out into the tender morning light, he no longer feared crumbling. He knew, indubitably, he had never walked alone. Turning back to the sitting space, he catched mountain-steady, ever constant Combeferre in the armchair. Sweater clad, glasses crooked, exhaustion shadowed under his lenses, come to surface in his dark skin, his lips were slightly parted where they kissed Courf's temple, breathing him in even as he slept peacefully. Courfeyrac, curled into his chest, grinning as he was prone to, still as he never is, was held safe despite the tangled web of their legs in the threadbare knit blanket Cosette had gifted them, its soothing turquoise and marine green lozenges in such loud contrast to his flowery shirt he could almost hear the clang of clashing colours. Jehan's copper braid overlapped their feet, their head laying crookedly, kinked in a distorted manner where they rested gently on the maroon carpet, their skirt flirting faintly with a discarded flyer under the coffee table, under which all their shoes had been abandoned as if fallen soldiers, resting vessels.  
  
They'd all succumbed to Hypnos after a number of films. It had been a night of cathartic celebration, as Ferre finally handed in his written dissertation - a Doctor of Philosophy, their compass was to be. The last time they had all managed to gather thus had been his birthday, a month before, celebrated in Musichetta, Bussuet, and Joly's larger flat. Grantaire had been late, rushing to finish his final project, his brushes tiptoeing over the oil paints in a furious and determined resolution to perfect the folds of Éponine's dress, as she had posed for the canvas as rebel Ariadne. Still, clean and primed, he had shown up eager to hold his friends and be held in return, to hug Combeferre and wish him a joyful rest of the day. There had been bottles laying around, for they respect his recovery, never treating him as one would glass, despite his being tinted and liable to shatter. He was trusted. At a certain point, he had sat by himself on the balcony, breathing in the murmurs of his nest and allowing his lips to curl up. It's where, briskly sliding the glass door open and freeing the then rugged, muffled beat of Frank Ocean from the inside, which Courf had finally managed to worm in, Enjolras had found him. The marvel had glanced at him with bated breath, looking tentative, dissimilar and yet not totally unlike himself, thumbing a book held meagerly in his hands. Hesitant, he’d turned his back to his beloved Paris and sat down facing Grantaire, their legs tangling, leaning towards one another with unsurprising magnetic tendency. Opening the printed work and clenching his jaw, Enjolras hesitantly began - he had hoped to discuss Impressionism, he’d whispered, gazing through his honey curls, and was Grantaire willing to debate him on its merits? Feeling neurotic, flushed drunk on the unspoken, he'd ardently concurred. His rapturous audience had drifted closer as the albums were switched inside, and, the more the light drifted away, the more their breaths had coincided.  
  
"Shall we head in?" he had finally suggested, once the breeze had turned more unpleasant than not and the cold slithered through his grey wool jumper. The blonde had startled and, peering guiltily into the living space where Ferre sat, surrounded by their friends, nodded, not before reaching and gripping Grantaire's sleeve, dissecting him intensely. To be determined is a bargain you make with yourself as you tread through the tricky road of life, a candle that never goes out and, because no one loves the light like the blind man, finally starting to perceive, Grantaire had interwoven their fingers and pulled them both towards the familiar warmth of Bahorel's booming laughter. Perhaps he was not solely useful after all, and knowing himself to be needed, as he, too, craved, was as gratifying as he had ever scarcely hoped to feel.  
  
Back in the present moment, Enjolras shifted slightly, his nose sinking deeper into Grantaire's bicep. Laying on his back, arms lifted and fingers crossed behind his head, as if repenting, he'd fallen asleep alone, but it seemed Apollo had joined him at last, whereas last night he'd stood eagerly listening to Feuilly's latest scheme for their next riot, after sharing a clementine with the artist, frightfully sweet. To his right, slightly down, he saw Enjolras' lively crimson lips cushioned into the faded green of his hoodie-clad arm; the severe line of his nose, his Greek jaw, and the obstinate line of his brow softened by the blessed morn. For years, he'd imagined him frantic under stage lights; yet, having seen him moonlit, having been gazed at by cornflower eyes under the canary flash of his own bedside table's light, this was his most beloved sight. He'd thought shouldering the weight of his love, the burden of his devotion would burn him alive, yet he had not imagined the wonderful burning of being seen back. May being known be his noose.  
  
Shifting slightly, the curve of his spine bending, the object of his fond mediations opened his steely eyes, instantly alert. His hand, which had rested in Grantaire's navel, slid up his torso to stroke coal curls, instinctively. "Go back to sleep, mon amour, it is early still", the dark-haired man, hugging him closer, murmured, and Enjolras acquited.  
  
Grantaire though back to weeks ago, to one of Jehan's public poetry readings, where they'd mournfully declaimed _Is this really the world?/ Shall I grieve? Shall I hope?_ , and thought faintly to himself that, perhaps, he was in the Elysian fields after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Oooof!  
> The poetry Jehan quotes is “I imagine a Poet”, by Adonis.  
> Please consider https://www.buymeacoffee.com/greygrantaire  
> Come talk @greygrantaire!


End file.
